by Denise Wells
I take a moment to scroll through the pics I’ve taken thus far. The cakes look amazing. Tabby, not so much. In most photos, her eyes are half-shut or her mouth is half-open. It takes real skill to consistently capture a person at the worst possible time. I have to make sure to get a couple that are flattering, otherwise I’m sure I’ll find myself without a job soon.
“May I see?” Tabatha leans close to me, trying to see the digital screen on the back of my camera.
“Uh. Uh. Uh.” I waggle my finger at her. “No peeking.”
“But they’re my pictures,” she protests.
“Actually, they’re my pictures until I sell them to you.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Well, I know there are some that caught me off guard and I want to make sure they are deleted.”
“Oh, they will be,” I assure her. “It would do me no good to have undesirable pictures of my clients.”
She sits back in her chair, seemingly relieved. I grab a few shots of Hunter and Liza deep in discussion. They seem to have left Tabatha completely out of the discussion and planning. But as near as I can tell, she doesn’t care.
“I will tell you this.” I turn to face Tabatha, a reluctant grimace on my face. “There could definitely be better pictures of you.”
Her lips press together, and she breathes in and out through her nose, nodding slowly. “That is why I asked you to wait until I was ready before taking the picture.”
“But then they wouldn’t be candid.”
“A posed shot can still look candid,” she hisses.
“Maybe,” I say. “But it wouldn’t be very professional of me to fake it.”
She seethes.
I snap a photo. It is most unbecoming.
“Delete that immediately.” Her voice is low and hard.
“No can do.” I shrug. “I never edit during the shoot.”
“Okay, my queen.” Hunter claps his hands, facing us. “Liza and I have got it figured out.”
“Okay,” Tabatha says, drawing the word out.
“We are going to do a different flavor for each layer. And have extra sheet cake in the kitchen for the flavors we think will be the most popular. My groom’s cake will be—”
“I hate to interrupt,” I say, not really hating to. “But shouldn’t the bride and the groom be deciding the flavors? Not the groom and the wedding planner.”
“It’s fine,” Tabatha says at the same time Hunter responds, “Tabatha doesn’t do cake.”
“No offense, Mr. Simpcox.” I feign shock. “But I’ve got pictures of her eating cake.”
“I’m so sorry, my queen.” Hunters takes Tabatha’s hands, his eyes searching hers from across the small table. “What would you like to do about the cake?”
“I don’t really care,” she says.
“Are you sure? Because I only want for you to be happy. And if there is anything—”
“It’s fine, darling.” She gives him a small smile. “Do you really think the photographer’s opinion matters in this?” Skimpycock raises his brows at me and he sits back in his chair, satisfied with what she’s told him.
The Tabatha that I know would never stand for not getting a say on any kind of event with her name on it. Why is she so muted with this? When we eloped, she wouldn’t even let me pick out my own jeans.
I take a good look at her. She’s aged a bit since we were together. Not in a bad way, mind you. Tabatha will be one of those women who ages gracefully, growing more beautiful as she goes. But she’s much thinner. She’s always been lean, but a voluptuous lean at the risk of sounding oxymoronic. Gone are her beautiful curves and luscious ass, and in their place the thin and more skeletal physique that women think men find so appealing.
I’m not afraid to say it—there is nothing attractive about pounding into hipbones or tailbones when you are fucking a woman. Tabby has never been this thin. I hope it’s not Simplecock’s influence that has her starving herself to skin and bones. I may be straddling a thin line between love and hate where Tabs is concerned, but that doesn’t mean I want her jeopardizing her health or getting involved with anyone who encourages such a behavior.
The cake tasting begins to wind down. Decisions having been made. Next up apparently is catering and venues. I get a few shots of the happy couple shaking the hand of the baker, walking through the bakery, and out the front door. Then I follow Tabatha to her car.
I have to jog a couple feet to get in line with her pace. “You must be the most low-maintenance woman in the world to just let a guy keep making all the decisions for you. Either that or you don’t have any original thoughts in that pretty little head of yours.”
She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?” Then stops. “Did you just imply that I’m not thinking for myself?”
“Well, no offense, but yeah, that’s kinda how it’s looking from here.”
“Because I don’t care about the cake?”
“Sure, that and the wedding planner and photographer too.”
“What makes you think I don’t care about those things?” she asks.
“Well, for one, your name never came up when I was dealing with Liza, which tells me you don’t care about the photographer, and two, each time that I’ve talked to her since about anything else, it’s been Mister Simplecock this, and Mister Simpcox that.”
“Did you just call him Mister Simplecock?”
It’s all I can do to hold in the laughter. I tried to say it fast so she wouldn’t hear it. But I should have known Tabby wouldn’t miss a thing.
“No, ma’am. I believe I said Simpcox.”
“Hmmm.” She narrows her eyes, obviously not believing what I’m saying. “Are you going to let me see the pictures now?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then kindly leave me be. And stop calling me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble and continue to follow her for another half a block. She stops suddenly, so I do too.
“Why are you still here?”
“Here?”
“Here, as in following me?”
“My car is over there,” I say gesturing vaguely to somewhere up the road.
She waves me forward. I stay where I’m standing.
“Go on,” she says.
“After you,” I say waving her forward.
She crosses her arms over the chest. “Look, I’m trying to be nice here, but I don’t like you following me or walking so close to me, it makes me uncomfortable. Would you please just go?”
Deciding to give her a break, I tip my hat at her and walk by, not stopping until I see her drive past. Only then do I turn and jog back in the direction we came to collect the car she may have recognized—a ’79 Bronco that I’ve had for years. It was passed down from my dad when I was younger; second only to the cameras and some original prints, it’s my most treasured possession. I also have a pimped-out Jeep that she doesn’t know about that I got in exchange for the rights to an extremely favorable action shot of a Wrangler cresting a mountain-top. I trade off between driving the two, depending on my mood or the weather.
Back home, I spend some time downloading the photos from today onto my hard drive. I have to laugh when I see that roughly ninety percent of those taken of Tabatha are downright terrible. The bulk of which will never be passed along to her or Pimplecock. I will reserve them for my amusement only.
While I don’t do much direct image manipulation during my edits, I do like to crop, enlarge, and blur a bit. Never will you find a photo of mine that has been deceptively altered in Photoshop or some other such program. But I absolutely believe in cropping out unnecessary background objects as well as empty space. And if I find that a photo will be enhanced by blurring some spots to make others more pronounced, I’m not opposed to that either.
I throw one hundred or so shots into a shared folder that I have given Liza access to. She has requested she be the go-between for me and Wimpycock. Of which I have zero complaints over. The less
time I have to spend interacting with him the better, as far as I’m concerned. Tabatha is another story entirely. I like seeing how far I can push her before she blows up at me. She came close today, I think. But the line is thin between pushing her buttons and getting fired, so I need to be careful.
Once I’ve put the “good” pictures into the shared folder for Liza to peruse, I go back to the bad ones of Tabatha. I’ve decided my favorite is one where her eyes are half closed, mouth wide open, and fork mid-delivery with cake. There is literally no way to make that shot appealing unless you chop her head completely out of the shot and replace it with someone else. Or even another of her.
I save it as my desktop screensaver then head to the bathroom to take off my fake facial hair. Like before, an angry red stripe forms along my upper lip after peeling it away. Even though I use a cream remover, it’s still sensitive. It’ll fade in a couple hours though. If I’m to be doing this on a more frequent basis, maybe I should look into a slightly better product to use than this cheap one I have now.
I shut down my system, grab a beer from the fridge, and order in a pizza. Then I sit out on my back deck and watch the views of the sound until my food arrives, thinking again that maybe I should get a dog. Or at least something that would help to cancel out the constant silence that I’m immersed in when I’m home. At least with a dog, I could talk to it, and if I didn’t want conversation it wouldn’t talk back.
9
Tabatha
Liza has us scouting locations for the ceremony and reception later today. Apparently, we also have to decide if we want them to be in the same place or if we care to travel and have our guests do the same. We’ve had a five-day reprieve from any sort of wedding activities due to Liza’s schedule. I find I haven’t missed the planning activities at all.
While Hunter hired her to be at our exclusive beck-and-call, she had a small number of events to wrap up prior to giving us all her focus. Not that dealing solely with us will leave her much free time, since Hunter wants to be married so quickly and with all the planning needed to keep to the “splendor in elegance” theme—whatever that means.
On paper, I’m a busy, career-minded, well-diversified, modern woman. In reality, I don’t have a lot to do since I’m not acting and spend much of my time being busy looking busy. Which is work. Real work. If you’ve ever tried to look busy when you aren’t, you know exactly what I mean. I know to some it looks like a life of luxury, but in reality, it’s hell. I have no discernible skills, nothing to offer the marketplace, my brand is in constant risk of running its course and becoming a thing of the past, and it’s not like this book that’s coming out is going to set me up for life. Plus, let’s face it, how long can a clothing line or syndication of decade plus old TV shows really pay the bills?
I know what you’re thinking, this is where Hunter comes in. With his ability to make money, I won’t have to worry about a thing. And you’d be right. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Hunter. I think we make a good team. We work, travel, and entertain well together. I enjoy his company and he loves me. There isn’t much else a woman can ask for.
Because, believe you me, that crap you see in books and movies, the happily ever after? The fairy tale? It doesn’t exist. Because, stories are just that. Fiction is . . . well, it’s fiction. Any romance you see in the movies is scripted, rehearsed, shot, and re-shot until it appears seamless. And passion? It’s fleeting. And infantile.
The real testament of a relationship is in compatibility and staying power. You can’t have one without the other. Which is how I know that Hunter and I are in it for the long haul. We are compatible to a fault, which in turn gives us staying power. That’s all it takes.
Crystal and her husband are a different story. They are an anomaly. Normal relationships aren’t like theirs. They are the one in a million couple that all the myths are fabricated from: they laugh and flirt, enjoy date night, have regular sex, seek counsel from the other, are the best of friends, and share a dynamic chemistry.
When I was young, I thought I had that one in a million with Pax. Instead, being with Pax convinced me of the dubious existence of such a coupling for the remaining nine hundred, ninety-nine thousand of us. After which I decided the only answer for me was to take on life alone. But being alone can be lonely.
Enter Hunter.
And with him, the end of my alone and the answer to my future.
My phone alarm sounds. It’s time for me to leave to meet Liza and Hunter to view locations. I double-check my makeup and outfit in the mirror. It’s important to Hunter that we exude a good impression at all times, by which he means one that meets his approval. So, I have my hair in the chignon he liked so much the other day.
I sincerely hope that photographer won’t be there. Liza assured me his pictures from the cake tasting were lovely. But I know for a fact he predominantly took pictures of me with my mouth open or eyes closed. The fact that he was even allowed a camera near me when I was eating is out of the ordinary. But Hunter, via Liza, had already okayed the shoot. Far be it for me to take that away from my groom. It doesn’t mean I have to let any unflattering pictures of me make it beyond the darkroom floor, so to speak.
I back my car from the garage and circle the drive to leave the property. GPS shows it taking about fifteen minutes for me to get to there. I use my hands-free to call Crystal.
“Hey, fancy pants,” she answers.
“Baby mama, how’s it going?”
“Oh, you know, at the same time I’m weaning from the boob, I thought it would be fun to potty train. So, I’ve got Armageddon happening.”
To reinforce her point, I hear the twins yelling in the background. They don’t sound happy.
“Does that mean you don’t have time for drinks later?”
“If by drinks, you mean you come over here and we lock the kids in the play-yard and have martinis in the backyard, then yes, I have time.”
“It’s a deal,” I tell her, laughing. I could use some Crystal time. Sometimes an hour every few days in the morning just isn’t enough.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” she asks.
“Venues.”
“Fun! Did you decide?”
“No, we’re looking at one today and then one or two more later this week. Hunter and Liza decided on three. They’ve negotiated pricing and everything, we just have to decide which one we like the feel of best.”
“Wow, he’s really getting into this, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s the first stop?”
“Doso Park.”
“I’ve heard it’s amazing. Can’t wait to hear all about it—”
Something crashes in the background and I hear one of the babies begin to cry. The other joins in soon after.
“Shit,” she says.
“I’ll let you go and see you later,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
We hang up and I refocus on my driving. Even after living here so many years before, I still tend to get lost in downtown Seattle, with GPS. In theory, the street layout is disjointed rectangles. But in reality, it can be confusing as hell. Especially with all the road construction that is constantly going on.
I arrive at the venue a minute or so late. They’ve arranged for valet parking for us, so I turn my car over to the attendant and step up to the entrance. The door opens for me from the inside.
A familiar mustached face smiles at me.
Great.
“Matthew,” I say.
“Ms. Seton, ma’am, you are looking lovely as always.”
“Tabatha.” I sigh.
“Right, right. Tabatha. Sorry about that.”
I wave a hand dismissively. I don’t want to continue the conversation, but I also don’t want him thinking it’s that big an issue.
“Where are the others?” I ask, looking around.
He shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I cam
e in just before you.”
“Did you ask at the front desk?”
“There isn’t one.”
We stand there for an awkward moment.
Click.
Goddamn him.
“I’m going to go see if I can find them,” I say, turning my back to him and his stupid camera.
“I’ll go with you,” he says.
As I enter a hallway, I hear voices in the distance.
“I don’t know what’s keeping her, she’s always on time.”
I recognize Hunter’s voice. I look at my watch. I’m barely seven minutes late at this point.
We find them in the main room.
“Oh, there you are. I was so worried, you’re never late.” Hunter comes to me, putting his hands on my upper arms and looking me over as if trying to see if I’m harmed.
“I’m only a few minutes late.”
“I was about to call. You know how I get. It’s just not like you, is all.”
“I’m here now,” I say. Even I can hear the impatience in my voice. Has he forgotten he was ten minutes late to the cake tasting?
I take a deep breath to calm myself. I don’t know why I’m losing my temper with Hunter, since that rarely happens. Plus, he’s right, I am late.
Matthew busies himself taking pictures of the venue. It is incredible. Old world rustic meets modern industrial.
I walk around the room and try to imagine myself in a wedding gown here—mingling amongst our friends, dancing with Hunter to our song, cutting cake, toasting with champagne.
I have a hard time with it.
A hard time with the venue or the groom?
I shake my head to clear it. My thoughts are obviously veering in a ridiculous direction.
“I love it, Liza. This is exactly what I had in mind.” Hunter’s voice carries in the empty hall.
This is not the place I want to be married. It’s just not the right venue.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Matthew asks, sidling up to me.
“What’s that?”